


Brilliant, Stupid Things

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:30:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4018105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One for the road, one more for the orgy.  Another one would be a bad idea, but Black Shadow, Overlord, and Sixshot consider that a challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brilliant, Stupid Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elapuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elapuse/gifts).



One for the road, one more for the orgy. Another one would be a bad idea, but Black Shadow, Overlord, and Sixshot consider that a challenge. 

 

 **Title:** Brilliant, Stupid Things  
**Warning:** SO MUCH DRINKING. Decisions and sex done while drinking. Sex, and drinking. Did I mention the drinking?  
**Rating:** R  
**Continuity:** IDW  
**Characters:** Black Shadow, Overlord, Sixshot, Tarn.  
**Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors.  
**Motivation (Prompt):** For Elapuse. Thank you!

 **[* * * * *]**

 

Every fifth day of the fifth month every five years in the war, the Warrior Elite had an orgy.

Technically it was more of a threesome, since nobody ever had the guts to take them up on an invitation to attend, but it was Sixshot, Black Shadow, and Overlord. Calling it a threesome just didn’t encompass the scope of the three of them clanging, so orgy it was. The fact that they drank until they saw two of each other also helped. Overcharged orgy! Things happened! Bits of anatomy were sore in the aftermath! Generally these two events were related, but one never knew. The sheer amount of engineroom moonshine engex they poured down their intakes made remembering what caused which ache kind of iffy.

The drinking made the nights more fun. It also substituted for any sort of psychiatric care they needed as mass murderers, weapons of destruction, and all-around killers of people, places, and things. The hangovers could probably stand in for the hellish penance preached in many religions. It was a one-night cycle of karma. They took their enjoyment of everything and then paid the price.

The most fearsome of Decepticons whimpered, “Oh Adaptus **why** ,” quite often the afternoon after. Mornings-after didn’t exist, they fervently agreed. Mornings-after were the figment of a tortured mind. Their denial of mornings-after tended to take the same route every time: Overlord favored curling into a ball and moaning a lot. Black Shadow retched until he dry-heaved and slumped back offline in his own puddle of fluids. Sixshot refused to transform out of gunmode. 

Denials of reality would continue until afternoon arrived. Once they couldn’t force recharge any longer, they staggered away from each other swearing it wouldn’t happen again. Despite this, the three of them knew they’d all be back on the fifth day of the fifth month every five years.

Look, they were aware it was a bad habit. Getting blind drunk and rutting each other into oblivion wasn’t the wisest life choice they could be making. They knew that. But c’mon -- they were Decepticons. It wasn’t like somebody was going to tell their nannybots on them and make them go sit in the corner. Their nannybots were Decepticon commanders who probably had worse habits and filled the corners with entertainment that would put their orgy to shame.

Besides, their selection of bangable mechs was pretty much limited to each other. The reason they held an orgy composed of three mechs was because nobody else was likely to survive. When the Warrior Elite partied, they partied _hard_. Honestly, they were a little surprised when _they_ survived. Sore body parts and spectacular hangovers were the least of their mementos, over the years.

Black Shadow had a paranoid twitch leftover from an adventure he could only vaguely remember involving a doctor whose name he never caught no matter how many times he asked. Seriously, who?

Overlord was pretty sure he’d gotten so overcharged he’d propositioned a chair and interfaced a couch. Nobody had stopped him. In fact, he was just as sure that the table had egged him on. Shameful as it was, he’d had a great time and kept the couch. 

Sixshot once woke up the day after on an entirely different planet, wearing some sort of feathered headgear, sitting on a throne while an alien tribe worshiped him. He’d only talk about that week when he was so fendered he slurred, but no matter how incoherent the story, he inevitably perked up right at the end to declare, “And then they made me their chief!” 

He passed out immediately afterward, of course, which drove Black Shadow and Overlord crazy. He always did that! Sixshot was the worst storyteller in the known universe. He sporfled at his own jokes. The timing was always off for his punchlines. He forgot crucial details and had to stop to backtrack to retell the important parts. He got distracted by getting a drink refill and started telling a different story. Boredom at his own story stopped him midway through. He’d start telling some sort of interesting story, get to the good point, and _stop_. 

Sixshot was the fragging _spiketease_ of storytellers. Especially when he did it while actually telling a story about interfacing. 

It’s how their most recent venture into bad decision-making began. Overlord modestly would have assumed responsibility for it, but neither Black Shadow nor Sixshot were drunk enough to believe his elaborate story about pounding Megatron’s valve while the leader of the Decepticons bent over a meeting table. Drowning in triple-distilled engex wouldn’t have gotten them drunk enough to believe that story. If he kept making them giggle like this, they really would drown.

“Fine,” Overlord snapped at last. He sat down in a huff of miffed ego. “Don’t believe me. It’s not like either of **you** have anything to brag about! Brothels don’t count,” he added.

Black Shadow shut his mouth. Excessive drink slowed down his thoughts as he pondered Overlord’s words. It took a minute, but he asked, “Not even The Blue Electric?”

His fellow Warrior Elite paused to properly evaluate the potential in that tale. The Blue Electric hosted the last and greatest collection of Autobot-aligned whores in this quadrant, or at least there were plenty of blue optics behind its locked doors. Rumor had it that the doors were locked as much to keep the Autobots imprisoned as to keep cheap spenders out. Overlord credited the establishment itself for starting the rumors. Somebody in Decepticon High Command should take note of how to do a PR campaign, because Decepticons clamored for the strictly-limited invitations to throw their money at what were likely extremely well-paid whores playing at being captured Autobots. It took a fat credit account to get those invitations, but supposedly the place was worth every shanix. 

Overlord eyed Black Shadow in deep suspicion. “The Blue Electric…”

“Yeah.”

“The **Blue** Electric. Blue.”

Black Shadow smirked. “Yeah.”

“Blue as in…”

“Blue Bacchus.” Black Shadow leaned back and smirked some more. Far from being ashamed at being exposed, he seemed pleased to be caught. “One of my little side-investments, yeah.”

Overlord threw his hands up in the air. “There goes any interest I had in going.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. I just provided the start-up funds. Blue Bacchus runs the place.”

“That’s entirely my point!” He set his elbow heavily on the table and pointed an accusing finger at Black Shadow. “He never shuts up about you! He’s a one-mech obsessive fanclub. I don’t know how you managed to con him into believing you’re a prime example of a fighter, but it’s sickening. If I wanted to hear your praises sung while I frag, I wouldn’t shut off my audios while doing **you**.”

Hey now, that was just plain rude. Black Shadow started to point back at him, realized there was a drink in his hand, and tossed it back before responding. No sense wasting engex while debating brothel merits. “You, uh, you know he’s not sellin’ his own aft, right? He’s got shareware for that.” Overlord just looked at him. “Okay, so maybe he’d attach himself to you. Reflected glory an' all that.”

“Maybe? There’s no maybe about it!”

“I ‘faced Tarn.”

“He’s not that bad!”

“He never shuts up!”

“What did you say?”

“I didn’t -- wait, what?”

Overlord and Black Shadow blinked at each other for a second, then turned in unison to stare at the third member of the Warrior Elite. “What?” Overlord repeated, utterly dumbfounded. Surely they hadn't heard that right.

Sixshot didn’t bother lifting his chin off his forearm. “Don’t know if it’s anything to **brag** about, but I ‘faced him. Wasn’t bad. Kinda small and noisy compared to,” a hand waved lazily in their direction, “but the treads were nice. Not bouncy like tires. I could really get a good grip, if you know what I mean.” He curled his fingers as if holding on. “Tanks are good for that. I like tanks. The weirdest part was the transforming.”

They stared. Sixshot hummed quietly to himself as he poured another drink. 

They stared some more. His glass already had a gaudy array of bright edibles garnishing it, but he added a few more. Humming became a song last heard on the docks, sung by cargohaulers with the imagination to pack as many filthy lyrics in the space of a measure as they could. It took every speck of concentration Sixshot’s inebriated mind could muster to enunciate the words. It was clearly a far more important task than continuing what he’d been talking about a second ago.

Overlord cracked first. “What **about** the transforming?”

It earned him a blank look. “Huh?” 

“You said that the weirdest part was the transforming. Stop looking at me like that, you **just said it** ,” Overlord barked, but too late. Whatever train of drunken thought had brought the memory of fragging Tarn to the forefront of Sixshot’s thoughts had left the station, taking passengers, tickets, and the furniture with it for good measure. Sixshot gazed vacantly at Overlord, mystified. “You glitching -- nevermind.” Face? Meet palm. Overlord wasn’t sober enough to attempt wrangling information out of the drunken six-changer. “Frag it, let’s ‘face.”

Sixshot lit up like a searchlight. Alright, time for the orgy! He'd been _waiting_ for this. Why else would he put up with their company? “I want to try fisting!”

Well, that effectively ended any lingering idea of returning to the topic later. Everything sidelined into a size comparison. Of their _hands_ , of all things, but the loser was not unduly happy with the loss, as it ended with him screaming to high atmosphere as they explored just how much they could stuff up his port. It was fun while the overcharge lasted. 

Overlord regretted the morning after, but since mornings-after didn't officially exist, it was just one more poor decision to toss into the back of his mind to not think about once he was ready to rejoin reality. It was one of about seven for that particular drunken binge. They might have tried the transforming thing, but he was fairly sure he didn’t want to think about that too hard.

One way or another, he didn't give Sixshot's claim another thought. He limped away vowing to never come back, and that was the extent of his thoughts on everything that'd happened that night. Although he made a mental note to suggest midair fueling in their jetmodes next time.

A mental note that went out the nearest window when Black Shadow walked in five years on and announced, "I brought a guest!"

"Really?" Sixshot looked up from his frilly drink. There were nine shiny garnishes adorning the glass already, but a guest merited his full attention. "Please tell me he's into beastmodes."

Overlord elected to ignore that, as Sixshot on an beastmode kick could ruin the whole night if they let him. Instead, he stood up from putting the last engex keg down in the cooler. "What’d you do, engrave your spike with the invitation? I always knew Blue Bacchus would follow it anywhere. I assume he knows what he's walking into?" Because like the Pit was he letting him walk back out again. Finally, someone new to frag! His interface array came online in a rush at the idea of a new fragbuddy, obsessive walking fanclub or not. Overlord might not like Blue Bacchus, but he was an old hand at shutting his audios down when the chatter became too annoying. 

Black Shadow beamed at them as the door opened again. Overlord choked on thin air. Perversely, his interface array shot into overdrive. Sixshot blinked, nodded approval, and stood up to whack Overlord on the back in lieu of patting. It knocked Overlord to his knees and interrupted whatever indignant comment he’d been about to bellow.

Tarn cocked his head to the side. "Is he alright?"

"Pffft, he's fine." Black Shadow dismissed Overlord's silent fit. "Drink?"

"Ah. Please." The leader of the Justice Division kept staring. It wasn’t every day people got to see the Warrior Elite pushing each other around like juvenile Sharkicons in a tank.

Still on his knees, Overlord flailed one hand in pathetic defense against Sixshot’s enthusiastic pounding on his back. Both flailing and pounding were less than helpful. At the same time, an unspoken conversation of incredulity and reassurance between the two Warrior Elite underlay every move they made. To Black Shadow, it was clear communication. To Tarn, it was a fascinating code he could almost understand. Every time Overlord slid toward unrestrained agitation, Sixshot heaved a sigh and thwacked him a couple more times, driving the air out of his vents. Wheezing for air made it difficult to get riled up.

And Overlord so dearly wanted to be upset. He wanted to demand answers. How had Black Shadow gotten Tarn here? Why had Tarn come? How _dare_ he come here?! This was Overlord's party! Sort of. Okay, so Tarn had been invited, but still -- !

"Here." A drink found its way to Tarn's hand, and he absently raised it to his mask, slipping the straw through his mask on automatic. "Like it?"

It stripped the surface off his tongue and burned his intake tubing as it boiled down into his tanks. His chemical receptors surrendered, handing in their resignations for the night. Tarn swallowed a weak cough and opened his vents fully to allow the fumes to disperse. He strained to reach for a tactful response. "It's...potent."

Black Shadow clinked their glasses together in a toast to Tarn’s diplomacy. "Considering what we run off of normally, it takes making our own distillery to brew anything that'll crash us. Don’t worry, we know it tastes like slag. Keep drinking. You'll get used to it." He took a swig and smiled the unflinching smile of someone who was three drinks into the night. 

Going by the number of garnishes collected on Sixshot's glass, the six-changer was further along than Black Shadow. It showed in the level of cheerful aggression he was showing. Sixshot was a _happy_ drunk. A happy, heavily-armed, uninhibited drunk who liked things to stay happy, even if it took applying preemptive brute force to any unhappy elements that showed up.

In that light, Sixshot repeatedly smacking Overlord on the back wasn’t a surprise. Tarn just wasn’t used to drunken Sixshot, yet. Black Shadow, on the other hand, smiled fondly at his fellow Warrior Elite. Aww, look at them getting along so nicely. Overlord got so much more _cooperative_ when Sixshot spanked him. Or, er, close enough.

Sixshot let up on the unhelpful non-patting but kept his hand raised in threat. Overlord coughed to reset rattled vent fans and squinted at the masked loyalist still staring at him. He opened his mouth to comment, but what he'd been about to say would forever remain a mystery. Sixshot slapped a hand over his mouth to shut him up. 

"I am here to relax and have a series of mindless frags featuring all three of you in various combinations," the six-changer announced rather loudly. Tarn was the one who choked this time. Black Shadow patted his back. "The last thing I want is two morons starting a fight. I want at least two spikes in me tonight, and I'll be more than happy if those spikes aren't attached to argumentative idiots." 

They stared at him. Tarn gurgled faintly. Black Shadow’s hand hovered over his back, stopped mid-pat.

"That came out wrong." Sixshot gave his drink and all its frilly garnishes a longing look. Overlord wasn't fighting the hand clamped over his mouth, but Sixshot couldn't risk letting go until this was settled. He inhaled deeply and let it out in a slow sigh. "I want to get so fendered I can blame ‘facing every one of you on engex poisoning, and then I want sex, lots of, preferably until the drinking seems like a good idea in comparison. I mean, I don’t have a drink in my hand right now, and why aren’t we fragging yet? Is drinking and ‘facing so hard?" he asked plaintively.

It was a little sad hearing him say something in that tone of voice. He was usually such a _happy_ drunk. Happy horny drunk. Overlord and Black Shadow had had enough engex at this point to feel sympathetic to his plight. They dimmed their optics and nodded grave agreement. Drinking and interfacing, interfacing again and drinking some more. What more could they want from tonight?

Tarn looked at the three of them and contemplated fleeing into the night.

Black Shadow, inspired into an act of charity by Sixshot’s speech, strode forward to retrieve the six-changer’s abandoned drink. It was presented solemnly to Sixshot. “To fragging until we can’t see straight.”

Sixshot clinked their glasses together. “To drinking until I don’t recognize you.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Overlord said, but only long experience interpreting Overlord’s words as muffled by various appendages in his mouth allowed them to understand him. It was an incoherent _’mrrglefuffdrrt’_ to Tarn.

"How **did** he persuade you to come?" Sixshot asked. Behind his hand, Overlord snorted, and Sixshot shrugged. "What? You'll ask if I don't, and you'll make it into an insult, somehow. You do that. It's your hidden talent."

"Not so hidden," Tarn muttered, but Black Shadow's laughter interrupted him.

"Persuade? Mechs, he **bribed** me!"

Tarn had the grace to wince. Yes, he’d been the one to approach Black Shadow. Yes, he’d proposed his inclusion into tonight’s meeting. Yes, he’d offered a substantial bribe to erase any hesitance on Black Shadow’s part. He should have known the mech accepted the blasted money too quickly.

Sixshot and Overlord regarded him with renewed interest. Sixshot’s hand fell away from Overlord’s mouth, revealing a wicked grin. Tarn gulped down the rest of his drink to delay answering for a minute, but they kept staring, optics wide and glittering. The caustic acid masquerading as engex bolstered his courage, and he squared his shoulders to face them. Fine, he’d tell them. It’s not like the night had gone anything as planned to begin with; might as well pitch the plan completely out. 

“I was under the impression,” he said, feeling a fool, “that these clandestine meetings were much larger gatherings than they evidently are, and that they centered around the subversion of loyal Decepticons.” He looked meaningfully toward Overlord. He knew full well that Overlord chaffed under Lord Megatron’s rule. He’d _thought_ these secret meetings linked into Overlord’s discontent somehow. 

All three superwarriors stared at him. 

“Clandestine?” Overlord wrapped his mouth around the word as if he’d never heard it before. “We put out advertisements.”

“I thought we were pretty clear on what goes on here,” Sixshot said, puzzled. “Content censors keep editing out half our ads, but in context, a little imagination fills in the blanks.”

“Heh, I'm plenty large to subvert some Decepticons. Where you want them subverted?” Black Shadow passed his drink to the other hand and used his now-free hand to make a strange come-hither gesture with the first three fingers.

At…crotch-height. Oh. 

Tarn tried to think of a response that wouldn’t sound as flustered as he suddenly felt. Overlord and Sixshot snickered.

“Don’t think that’s what he meant.”

“Wrong word use.”

Black Shadow looked at his drink doubtfully. How much had he put in his tanks by now? “Could've sworn ‘subvert’ was the verb form of ‘to make submissive.’”

Definitely flustered. “Obviously I was in error!” Tarn rushed to say. “This is not the meeting I believed it to be. I shouldn’t have come.“

Their reaction was instantaneous. “I’m not giving your money back,” Black Shadow said. 

“’Shouldn’t have come’ sounds like a roleplay I want in on,” was Sixshot’s opinion on the matter.

Overlord swiveled about on his knees to grab the nearest keg of engex. “Here, drink this until you think it’s a good idea again.”

Tarn stared at the small barrel presented to him. “…what?”

Simultaneous rueful shrugs swept the trio. “It’s a thing we do.”

“Tradition~”

“We could subvert you into staying? Would that help?” More lewd gestures at crotch height.

Tarn watched them, optics slowly widening. His interface array cycled online, valve primed and spike hopeful. Black Shadow’s version of subversion met the leader of the Justice Division approval on a level he didn’t want to think too hard on. For a mech that big, his fingers seemed obscenely flexible. Tarn’s fans spun faster as he watched their beckoning, welcoming dip and dance. He was tempted. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t tempted.

But getting involved with suspected List offenders wasn’t wise.

Except that this meeting was innocent. In terms of the Decepticon Cause, anyway. Nobody could possibly consider the wriggle of Black Shadow’s fingers innocent.

Drinking heavily wasn’t an intelligent thing to do when consent to dubious acts of interfacing was in question.

Tarn’s interface array pinged ready and willing. Aside from his pride, there wasn’t much of a question left. He shook the empty glass in his hand, speculating on how overcharged he already was. Tapping that engex keg would certainly drown out any cautionary reluctance prompted by his ego, and really, he could consider it his duty to do so. He was a Decepticon. He wasn’t above his own kind. They were equals, here. Refraining from such base activities merely because of who was involved implied that he considered himself above them. Holding onto that sort of Functionalist hierarchical belief was shameful.

There was a long, awkward pause as the three Warrior Elite waited. Tarn chewed over his options.

Inhibitions weren’t easy to shed. He took the straw out of his glass and rolled it between his fingers as he eyed them -- and the keg. He was among allies, not enemies. This might even count as a team-building exercise on his Personal Development Plan. He could make this work. Or he could blame it on the homebrew tomorrow morning. Either way, he’d get to find out if Black Shadow’s fingers felt as divine as they looked.

Curiosity was one of his many flaws, he admitted.

“Give me that,” he said, and three of the most powerful powerplants in the Empire roared, a bass rumble that rattled the floor under his feet.

Grinning like a fiend, Overlord scooted the keg closer. “Help yourself. We’ve got triple-distill at the bar, if you need something stronger.”

Black Shadow sauntered back toward him as Tarn bent to heft the thing up into the crook of one arm. “I’m going to need a bigger straw,” Tarn muttered, fumbling to poke it in.

“Maybe you just need a longer tongue. Like mine,” Black Shadow said, ducking his head to demonstrate the benefits of said tongue. Tarn gasped. Engex nearly sprayed out of his vents. Heavy, hot armor pushed against him, a thin liquid whip of a tongue twined into the cables of his neck, and the fingers.

Oh, the fingers.

Tarn swallowed a groan down in a gulp of engex so large it hurt his throat intake to force it through. Black Shadow’s systems purred, rattling him in time as their plating flared, edges interlocking. Fingers played between his legs. Tarn’s fans stuttered, pulling too much air in as output stalled. Sealed hatches were traced in fleeting touches that pulsed ripples of electromagnetic energy into the equipment underneath. Circuitry fired in response to phantom touches, then ached a moment later as the heavy electrical stroking withdrew to sink in elsewhere. The voltage was incredible, beyond what Black Shadow’s relatively slight frametype seemed capable of, but the mech wasn’t just a soldier. He was a Warrior Elite, a weapon of mass destruction packed into this short frame. 

For all that he was two thirds Tarn’s body mass, Tarn had never been more aware that Black Shadow could take him in a fight. The fingers dancing between his thighs were relentless; the arm around his waist had no give. The smaller mech zeroed in on every vulnerable, charge-swollen sensor node to exploit, and he was impossibly strong, taking more and more of Tarn’s weight as the tankformer’s knees melted. Wide wings spread, hiding them in their shadow as Black Shadow’s mouth fastened on the side of his neck. He exhaled, long and low, and gently bit the malleable metal. The tip of his tongue wormed into a chink, metal on metal, then metal licking bundles of insulated wires. Foreign energy throbbed up a direct conduit to stimulate the pleasure centers of the tankformer’s brain module. Tarn’s shoulders pressed against the door, and he gladly hid in the shade of Black Shadow’s wings as the teeth on his neck nibbled up toward his audio. His joints locked, his back arched, and he moaned, raggedly venting. Tearing spasms of intense pleasure twisted his spark in his chest, and he shuddered.

Overlord and Sixshot craned their necks in opposite directions trying to see around Black Shadow. Somehow, being the shortest and slightest didn’t stop him from blocking their view. They could hear the quiet sounds and see glazed, dimming optics staring off over their heads, but they couldn’t see what Black Shadow a doing to cause those little erratic motions of elbows and feet.

“Not fair,” Sixshot said sourly. “I wanted in.” _Why_ wasn’t he fragging someone yet? This was a question of great importance!

“You’ll get in, don’t worry.” Overlord stood at last and found his abandoned glass. Two refills knocked back in quick succession gave him an idea. “Come here.”

“Hold on, hold on.” A detour was required to reach the bowl of notched energon chips. Sixshot happily hung a couple more on the rim of his glass and speared a star-shaped goodie on a cocktail stirrer to add to the mix before going toward Overlord.

Who looked down at the floor in a plea for patience. “If I have to fish that out of my fuel tank tomorrow, I’m blaming you.”

“How’s it going to get in your tank?” Sixshot waggled the cocktail stirrer at him.

Overlord snapped his teeth at the treat on the end. “Put that down, and I’ll show you.”

Two minutes later, and Sixshot had forgotten his garnish-laden drink in favor of finally getting laid. The stirrer, however, hadn't been put down. It'd been repurposed. Energon didn’t melt into a puddle on contact with heated plating, but it left a thick residue. A tasty one, at that.

“Here next.” 

“Mmm.”

“Now here.”

“Mm?”

Sixshot rubbed his miniature scepter of power on the inside of his thigh, and the goodie on the end dripped. “There.”

Overlord sank down to clean it thoroughly, although the first messy kiss merely smeared it around. Soft lips parted for a lengthy lick up the inside of his thigh, thin pink fluid glistening over white plating. Overlord hummed as he laid sucking kisses back down.

The sticky trail led down the edge of Sixshot’s interface panel. Overlord lapped it clean, darting playful nips at the energon goodie left within reach as Sixshot’s hand stopped obeying commands to keep moving. Doing anything but spreading his legs fled the six-changer’s mind. The promise plush lips were writing up and down Sixshot’s body overwhelmed his thoughts.

Black Shadow could have sworn the sight of the two of them on the couch was what sent Tarn’s temperature skyrocketing. Overlord was on his knees again -- not uncommon during these events -- his arms tucked under Sixshot’s knees to hoist them up and apart. Sixshot’s head lolled on the back of the couch. His legs tensed to the rhythm of noisy, slurping kisses. Overlord lifted his helm to molest the gap under the six-changer’s chest plate, shrugging the mech’s legs further up onto his shoulders. It freed his hands to dig under Sixshot’s aft and yank him forward.

Sixshot moaned. He didn’t believe in restraint when it came to stuff like this. His moan rose and fell, weaving into the wet sound of Overlord’s mouth, charging the very air with a rich blend of indulgent pleasure and mounting anticipation. It could have been packaged as an aphrodisiac.

Tarn’s valve panel popped, spilling heat in a slick burst into Black Shadow’s palm. The port underneath quivered. Trembling infected the tankformer’s limbs as two fingers slid smoothly in, gradual but granting him no quarter. They were going in him whether or not he was ready for the stretch.

The pace Black Shadow set was cruelly slow. A barely-heard word panted from Tarn’s open mouth by the Warrior Elite's audio, but Black Shadow merely chuckled. He was going to enjoy this. Pain twitched his head to the side as a hand dug into his helm, but he barely flinched. He just kneaded his fingertips on a row of raised sensor nodes before thrusting his fingers deeper. 

Tarn’s hand tightened, pulling insistently. Faster, slag it!

For every pull, the fingers thrust into him curled slightly. Humiliatingly needy sounds tumbled out of Tarn’s mouth. It took him an excruciatingly long period of time to make the connection.

Black Shadow listened for the whispered word to repeat, but Tarn took a gulp from the half-empty engex keg and steeled himself. “L-let’s sit down. On the couch,” he clarified, because the fingers in his valve told him everything he needed to know about how easy Black Shadow would make this for him. If Black Shadow sat down here against the door, Tarn would end up sprawled on the floor, at the mercy of those fingers all night, whimpering wanton pleas while Black Shadow played his valve one overload after another.

A tempting prospect, but this was supposed to be a foursome, and a foursome was what he wanted. Frag if Tarn was going to let his one night of gloriously bad decisions be a mediocre one. He intended to get absolutely smashed and do all sorts of things he’d regret in the morning. It’d be harder to blame the engex for his poor choices if he made them all now, but with any luck, he wouldn’t remember being sober enough to think at all.

With that in mind, he squirmed on Black Shadow’s fingers but kept pushing away. The superwarrior fluttered them in a slow, dragging curl downward -- Tarn groaned -- but allowed it. His fingers schlurched as they slid out. A last delicate touch rimmed Tarn’s port, a hint of wet friction that hitched the tankformer’s vents. Already wobbly knees buckled. 

Black Shadow was _good_.

Tarn bit his lip and reset his optics rapidly. Control wavered just out of reach. Why had he stopped the wonderful wiggly fingers? He’d had a reason a moment ago.

Foursome. Right. He had to keep his optics on the goal, and the goal was currently on the couch, so he had to make his unsteady way over there, too. Tarn bolstered his willpower with more engex and pushed off the wall.

The pair on the couch didn’t see them coming, but Tarn hadn’t been ready for Black Shadow to spank his aft, either. Tarn jumped forward and promptly tripped over one of Overlord’s feet. Overlord yelped in surprise as the leader of the D.J.D. all but fell on top of him. Sixshot yelled, since the yelp did things to the sensitive neural receptors clustered under the head of his spike. 

Surprising Overlord typically resulted in death and destruction, but this time it resulted in something else entirely. Overlord turned blowjobs into slow, languid torments full of sloppy noises and enough edging to drive Sixshot to tackle him by the third time he was brought sobbing to the peak and left hanging. This time, however, Tarn fell on Overlord, who yelped as he tipped forward face-first, accidentally deep-throating Sixshot, whose optics whited out in the sudden shock of unexpected slippery pressure closing around his spike tip. Pleasure jolted through him like an electric shock, and the six-changer’s systems whined as overload hit out of nowhere, cascading through him in a wave of tripped circuit breakers.

Lips pursed shut, Overlord pulled back and glowered over the leg on his shoulder. He swallowed pointedly.

“Um…” Tarn had no idea what to say. He dumbly pointed over his own shoulder with the hand not holding onto the keg.

Overlord looked beyond him to glare at the true troublemaker in their midst. 

Black Shadow waved cheerily. “Sorry!” Yeah, no, he wasn’t sorry at all. “Special delivery!”

“Mmmm.” Sixshot stretched and stole the keg of engex in one swift move. Sometimes those ninja skills came in handy. 

Tarn stared at the empty space where it’d been, momentarily baffled by its absence. What the..? There had been a keg there a second ago. Now he was hugging nothing but air. Where’d it go? 

Overlord rumbled a laugh, and Tarn looked up. There it was! Oh, thank Lord Megatron, he’d thought he’d lost his mind. “Excuse me, but I was drinking that.”

Sixshot ignored him. “That was good. Now somebody spike me.” He spread his thighs, hiking one leg off Overlord’s shoulder to lay on the couch, and he dropped the arm not holding the keg to toy with the rim of his port.

The other three Decepticons paused to admire it. Fingers framed the flexing slide of metal, wet and glistening. 

Tarn had just sucked down half a keg, yet his mouth felt desert-dry. He’d been about to straighten up off Overlord, but he had a better idea, suddenly. A reconnaissance mission, so to speak.

Overlord made interesting sounds when groped. Good to know. Very useful knowledge for the Cause. 

A minute into his fact-finding mission, his wandering hands were seized. Apparently, Overlord wanted them right _there_ , pulling them down as if it were some kind of challenge. Tarn hesitated for a fraction of a second. Was this relevant data?

"You want another drink?" Black Shadow called from over by the bar. 

That decided him. "Yes. Make it something strong." If tonight was a night for bad ideas, he might as well explore the depths of perversion. It was a good night for it. He turned his hands in Overlord's grip and wrapped them around the hard shaft they'd been pressed to. 

Serious information-gathering going on here, mmhmm. Finding the weaknesses of allies and/or enemies. Preparing for battle of a sorts.

Squeeze at the tip, and Overlord braced his arms against the couch. Pump slowly, and the mech growled. He didn't have the patience for teasing. Tarn smirked at the irate growl and upped his pace. Overlord slumped, supported by the couch. Tarn loosened his hands, and the growl returned. It seemed Overlord couldn't take what he liked to dish out. Overload denial was only fun when he was the one doing the denying. This merited more testing.

Wishful optics were made at the drink Black Shadow had assembled. "Is that for me?"

"Nope. Not every drink's for you, you know." Sixshot whined protest, but Black Shadow sloshed the glass by Tarn's audio until the tankformer freed one hand to take it. Overlord snarled angrily at the interruption, only to make a strange gasping noise. His complaints cut off cold. The couch jumped as he abruptly thumped his face down between his arms.

Interested, Sixshot and Black Shadow leaned to the sides to take a look.

Tarn was an expert multitasker. One hand held his drink as he sipped from the curly straw. At the same time, his other hand tweaked the head of Overlord's spike, fingertips massaging the underside and thumb scrubbing the tip. Overlord's hips jerked in time with that thumb, and muted little sounds got out through the couch.

Sixshot's wishful optics were directed quite a bit lower this time. "Is **that** for me?"

Black Shadow grinned. “You bet your aft it is.” 

He pounced. The couch creaked under his weight, and then it began to squeak. Rhythmic, pounding, metal-on-metal clanking and couch squeaks filled the room. Black Shadow grunted, driving Sixshot down with every pounding thrust, but the six-changer bounced right back, happily shouting encouragement.

The noise was enough to give Overlord a processor ache. "Enough!" He tossed his head up and violently pushed back from the couch. The way it lurched had been making him faintly seasick.

The hand around his spike felt -- he didn't know how to describe how it felt in conjunction with whom the hand belonged to. 'Tarn' and 'handjob' just didn't fit together in his mind. He'd need a lot more engex to properly process things, but for now, he spun on his knees to confront the leader of the Decepticon Justice Division.

Optic to optic, they glared at one another. Rebellious Warrior Elite versus the leader of the D.J.D., facing off at last. It was an epic showdown. 

Maybe not so epic. “Now kiss!” Black Shadow whooped in the background. The couch started to scoot across the floor. 

Overlord gave the mouth slit of Tarn’s mask a look but dismissed the suggestion. They were beyond the preliminaries by now. "Let's frag."

Tarn look vaguely cornered. They were really going to do this, weren’t they? All he could think of was, "I'm not nearly drunk enough for that, yet."

"Oh, well, the bar's o -- "

“No!” Exasperated, Tarn blew air out of all of his vents at once. They really _were_ going to clang, and it was now or never. "Just spike me, you traitorous pile of bolts!"

Overlord smiled. Tarn's engine roared as massive arms wrapped around him, almost crushing him. Black Shadow and Sixshot stopped to stare when Overlord tossed the tankformer to the floor, but that might have been since even their vigorous clanking couldn’t drown out the floor-shaking _CRASH!_

“Traitor?” Hard hands pried his knees apart. Tarn kicked on principle, but Overlord seemed amused by his resistance. “A rather vile accusation. I'm a loyal servant of the Decepticon Empire. An accusation like that makes me think you **suspect** me of something, Tarn."

There a dozen things Tarn could have said about that, but this was neither the time nor the place to speak of his suspicions. Business wasn't appropriate with Overlord's spike between his thighs, sliding slowly _in_. 

He swore the tip was stabbing straight into his spark. Instead of a response, he managed a thin, whining moan. Overlord's hips drew back before thrusting forward roughly. Lines of white static filled Tarn's vision. His engine shifted up to run too fast, cycling hot. He thrashed, hands grasping weakly at Overlord's arms as his spark throbbed, starbursts of agonizing pleasure flooding from it as his valve transmitted live current in clanking shocks of charge. The spike slamming home into him almost _hurt_ , it felt so good. It didn’t seem physically possible for anything to feel this good!

Big hands pinned him down, and Overlord loomed over him. "Nothing to say, Tarn?" 

"Where's -- " He jolted as Overlord plunged in to the hilt and rolled his hips in a maddening grind. Watching Tarn fight for a level tone appealed to the fragger’s sadistic side, he could tell. Tarn reset his vocalizer. "Where's my drink? I **don't** want to remember this in the morning."

"I could stop."

"Don't you dare!"

Overlord paused, optics tinged with confusion. "But you just said you don't want to remember."

Tarn fought against the hands holding his wrists to the floor and hooked a leg over the back of Overlord’s thigh. "I said I don't want to remember, not that I don't want to do it in the first place!" He focused his optics on the ceiling. He refused to look at Overlord's face. It might end up haunting his frag-fantasies, and that would just be wrong. "Keep going."

"But -- "

He bucked his hips. "Now!"

Overlord stared down at him. "You want to…what? I think I need another drink just to get through fragging you."

Tarn started to retort but stopped to consider his own words. Overlord kind of had a point. "It made more sense when I was sober."

"Ahhhh." The confusion disappeared, and Overlord started moving again. Tarn arched and moaned gratefully. "One of **those** ideas. I completely understand."

Drunk-logic was the best thing ever. It was such a relief not to have to explain himself. 

"Ever tried fisting?"

Relief gone. "Uh. No?"

"Hmm." But Overlord's speculative look was on the doubled fusion cannons attached to Tarn's arm, not on his hands. "So I was thinking...those are like Megatron's. Except bigger."

"And there are two of them," Tarn felt compelled to add.

Some ideas were so bad they were actually sort of brilliant. This was not one of those ideas. 

They stared at each other. Overlord worried his lower lip. Tarn’s overcharged libido chose to fixate on that, shutting out the part of his mind screaming about how there were warning labels on all armaments warning against exactly this, this was a horrible idea, this would definitely void the warrantee. Tarn’s voice of reason sounded slightly hysterical, possibly because Tarn’s voice of drunk-logic was already devising a tentative plan.

"Anybody need another drink?" Black Shadow called out.

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
